The lights in the Ancient Residence were dim and hazy. In the grand hall that met her eyes stood a massive bed large enough for four or five people to roll around on comfortably. It was surrounded layer upon layer by red gossamer veils, and whenever a breeze stirred them, tantalizing scenes that could make one’s face flush came into vague view.
In the corner of the hall stood a tall, burly man nearly two meters in height. The muscles bulging on his arms and shoulders were about the size of an adult’s head. He stood ramrod straight like a stone statue, unmoving, though his eyes occasionally shifted toward the bed, betraying some inscrutable emotion.
From within the red veils came a woman’s soft gasps and playful laughter, revealing her current state of utter bliss and satisfaction. Ji Wuxin quietly sidled closer to the man standing guard nearby.
“Uncle Xiong.”
The man’s taut face finally reacted. His thick, well-shaped brows furrowed tightly. “Call me Jun Lang.” (Jun Lang means Handsome)
Though the man had a towering, muscular build, his face was exceptionally fair and delicate—prettier even than those flower boys on TV. The only flaw was a vivid purple-red scar running from his neck up to his chin, which marred the perfection. Otherwise, he could have debuted on the spot as an idol.
Ji Wuxin spread her hands with a shrug. “Fine, Uncle Jun Lang.”
Jun Lang had no original name. After Jiao Niang took him in, his imposing stature earned him the nickname “Xiong” around these parts—even Jiao Niang called him Xiong Shen. But he found “Xiong Shen” too fierce and inauspicious, so he gave himself the name Jun Lang, saying it paired nicely with Jiao Niang.
Ji Wuxin had watched from the sidelines for years now, and she wasn’t blind—she could see that Jun Lang liked Jiao Niang. Unfortunately, he had feelings, but she had none in return. Jiao Niang liked men, not male ghosts.
“What business does Jiao Niang have today?”
No sooner had she spoken than the bed’s veils were flung aside from within. Ji Wuxin saw a man with dark circles under his eyes grinning foolishly as he crawled out.
That look… just like Song Qian’s.
Ji Wuxin gritted her teeth, thinking the bite she’d given her before leaving hadn’t been hard enough.
A little ghost came over at her summons and led him away—probably to wipe his memory and toss him out.
“Wuxin, how have things been lately?”
Jiao Niang’s soft, coquettish voice drifted from the bed, accompanied by the rustle of fabric as she dressed.
“Lately… pretty good.” Ji Wuxin had no intention of confessing the embarrassing incident of her injury and recovery.
“Is that so?”
A pair of slender, pale legs emerged from the red veils. Jiao Niang tugged at the gossamer barely covering her body and stepped out barefoot. Her lips were ruby red, her teeth like pearls, as if she’d just feasted on some priceless elixir.
Ji Wuxin’s eyes locked onto the veil draped over her, already scheming for an excuse to claim it.
Jiao Niang glanced up and caught the liar’s gaze fixed greedily on her clothes. She arched a brow, sauntered over, and tilted Ji Wuxin’s chin up. “What are you staring at?”
Ji Wuxin chuckled sheepishly, pinching at the veil pleadingly. “Lend me this to wear, huh?”
“Just for two days—er, no, one day. I’ll give it back after one day.”
Jun Lang’s brows knitted even tighter as he listened from the side. Jiao Niang gently swatted her hand away, then swayed her hips over to lean against him. “What do you want my clothes for? You can’t wear this.”
Jun Lang’s arm wrapped around her slender waist, letting her lean fully into his chest.
“Oh right, you almost distracted me from it. A couple days ago when I went looking for you, that little girl could actually see me.” At the mention of Song Qian, a playful glint entered Jiao Niang’s eyes. “You and her?”
Ji Wuxin averted her gaze evasively, not yet sure how to explain. Abruptly, the voice above her turned icy. “Never mind. Let’s talk about your injury first.”
Ji Wuxin didn’t dare hide it from her. She recounted the whole Ghost Mother affair honestly, even peeling off the pallid Ghost Face mask from her own face as she spoke.
Jiao Niang eased slightly out of Jun Lang’s arms, lifted Ji Wuxin’s chin, and examined her closely. Her voice was barely audible. “Pretty face you’ve got. Looks like that girl takes good care of you.”
Ji Wuxin didn’t catch it clearly. “What?”
Jiao Niang pinched her supple cheek, a touch of envy in the gesture. Youth was truly a blessing.
“Nothing. You got lucky running into the Ghost Mother after all these years and not getting eaten. You’ve been lording it over those little ghosts for so long, you forgot your own limits out in the wider world.”
Ji Wuxin hung her head, deflated. She could have beaten her, but that ghost had been too sneaky.
Jiao Niang nearly laughed at her wilted expression. “Can’t handle a couple words of criticism? It’s all Xiong Shen’s fault for spoiling you.”
Jun Lang immediately raised his hand in protest. “I didn’t.”
Ji Wuxin shot him a glare. No need to distance yourself so fast!
“Alright, next time you meet something tough, don’t try to fight it head-on. If you can’t win, run, got it? And for the next while, you stay put right by that little girl’s side. No going anywhere, and don’t even think about hanging out with those little ghosts.” Jiao Niang’s expression turned serious as she lectured, repeating emphatically, “You have to stay by her side.”
Ji Wuxin had been wondering how to keep Song Qian from seeking out other ghosts. This was music to her ears—she’d stick to her like glue!
“Got it. Alright, if there’s nothing else, head back. I’ll have Xiong Shen see you home.”
A ghost her size, and she still needed a chaperone to get home? Talk about losing face. Ji Wuxin shook her head firmly, only to wilt under Jiao Niang’s fierce glare and obediently shuffle to Jun Lang’s side.
“Let’s go. I’m sleepy; I’m off for a nap.” With that, Jiao Niang slipped off the red veil she wore and draped it over Jun Lang’s arm, then padded barefoot into the inner chamber wearing only a small bellyband.
Jun Lang held the veil out to Ji Wuxin. “Jiao Niang’s giving it to you. Take it.”
Ji Wuxin’s eyes widened in delight as she snatched it up and held it against herself.
Jun Lang pressed down on her excited hands, warning her. “If you wear it, only wear it in front of that girl.”
Ji Wuxin looked up at him, puzzled. “Why?”
Jun Lang pushed her shoulders, steering her toward the exit. “When it’s just the two of you, ask her if you can wear it in front of a third person.”
Ji Wuxin huffed inwardly. As if Song Qian could control her. She’d wear it, and that was that!
~~~
When Jun Lang returned after seeing Ji Wuxin back, Jiao Niang was already dressed impeccably and seated properly in the hall. A sheet of paper with blurred writing lay beside her hand.
“What’s this?”
Jiao Niang raised her hand, admiring her freshly painted red nails. Sharp as blades, they left a shallow cut with the lightest scrape against skin.
“No matter what, Wuxin grew up under our watch. Even if it’s only been a few years, we can’t let just anyone come after her.”
“Go spread the word around: that white-faced ghost is under Jiao Niang’s protection. Anyone who wants to die can come try their luck.”
“Got it. I’ll handle it right away.”
~~~
When Ji Wuxin returned to 404, Song Qian was on the phone.
“Yeah, I’ll come back this summer break to see you. It’s been so long; I miss you.” Song Qian’s voice was unusually soft and sweet, though Ji Wuxin had no idea who was on the other end.
Ji Wuxin walked over and plopped down beside her, staring unblinkingly.
Song Qian glanced at her. What was she up to now?
Her lips still stung from speaking, and seeing Ji Wuxin’s face reignited the anger she’d just quelled.
Song Qian slapped a palm over that face, shoving her away a bit before turning her back to continue the call during a pause.
“School’s out in July—about twenty days from now. Oh, how’s Uncle Ji next door? I’ll drop by to see him when I get back and bring him a gift.”
Ji Wuxin pulled her hand down, her own face dark as she leaned in demanding an explanation. Then an elderly voice came from the phone.
“He’s doing well. Tends to his flowers and birds every day. His niece drops by with things sometimes, and he shares some with me.”
“Uncle Ji’s such a nice guy. I’ll head back this summer then. Take care of yourself, Grandma.”
“Alright, alright.”
After hanging up, Song Qian shoved the eavesdropper onto the sofa, just as Ji Wuxin had done to her before leaving.
Ji Wuxin blinked in stunned surprise, staring at her dumbly. She’d just realized something huge—Song Qian had gotten bold! She even dared push her now!?
“Your injury healed?”
Ji Wuxin’s mind was elsewhere, so she responded with a delayed “Ah?”
Song Qian itched with frustration. Her injury was healed, leaving Song Qian looking like a ghost herself from exhaustion.
Just two days ago, some random woman had choked her—thinking about it still pissed her off.
Oh right, what had that woman said?
Song Qian suddenly remembered and nudged Ji Wuxin’s calf with her toe. “A couple days ago, someone came looking for you. Jiao Niang, was it?”
“I know—Jiao Niang told me.” As Ji Wuxin spoke, she lifted her foot and planted it on Song Qian’s calf, seemingly getting revenge for the earlier shove.
Song Qian rolled her eyes inwardly. Ren Qing was right after all—Spirits really were idiots. So childish.
“I’m going to bed. Don’t come over.”
Ji Wuxin, of course, wasn’t about to listen to her. Song Qian had barely made it to the bedroom when she spotted Ji Wuxin sprawled out on her bed, flashing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
Great. Another sleepless night ahead.
Song Qian had figured she’d wake up the next morning with that telltale Yang Qi-drained pallor, forced to face the world looking like death warmed over. To her surprise, though, the dark circles under her eyes had faded considerably, her complexion much improved—aside from a touch of lingering fatigue.
“See? Sleeping with me has its perks. From now on, no sharing a bed with other ghosts,” Ji Wuxin chattered on beside her, beaming with pride at Song Qian’s refreshed face.
Song Qian drew in a deep breath, fighting the impulse to hurl her out the window—bragging rights and all.
With just over twenty days until the holiday break, Song Qian gathered the materials for her final papers and some digital assignments she needed to submit. She didn’t neglect updating Ji Wuxin’s information sheet, either.
The process came with a few minor hiccups, though—
“Ji Wuxin, what’s your height and three measurements?”
At that moment, Ji Wuxin was lounging in Song Qian’s short-sleeved shirt and shorts, legs kicked up as she binge-watched her drama. Hearing the question, she whipped around, seized Song Qian’s hand, and pressed it right against her chest. “Feel for yourself.”
Song Qian: “…”
Sure, she appreciated a girl with a killer figure, but getting hands-on like that…
“Get lost.”
Or take this one—
“Ji Wuxin, are you married?” It was a pretty idiotic question, but the form specifically asked for it.
Ji Wuxin turned back with a blank look on her face, still peeling an orange in her hands. “Married? To you, aren’t I?”
“…”
Thanks to Ji Wuxin’s lack of cooperation, by the time Lin Qing swung by to collect the form, only a single item had been updated.
“Loves oranges?” Lin Qing stared at the sheet in his hand, which was virtually unchanged, a look of utter helplessness crossing his face. Half a month had gone by already—if he showed up empty-handed like this, the Group Leader would chew him out alive.
“Nothing else at all?” Lin Qing pleaded, pointing awkwardly at the height and measurements section. “This one! You two are both girls; you ought to have a good sense for it, right?”
Song Qian racked her brain. She lifted her right hand and made a vague cupping gesture in the air. “Roughly… a C?”
Lin Qing glanced down at her hand. “?”
“Oh, right—I’m heading out on break in a couple days. I won’t be around during the holiday, so if you’re coming back for the form next time, it’ll probably be two months from now.”
If Song Qian left town, the Jade Spirit would surely tag along with her. That wouldn’t do at all! The Group Leader had been hounding him about this form like it was life or death. Two months without it? He’d be a dead man walking. Lin Qing shook his head vigorously at the thought.
“Where are you headed? Mind if I come along?”
“I’m going back home to visit. If you want to join, I don’t mind at all.” Song Qian would actually be thrilled—especially if anything came up on the road…
She immediately spat to ward off the bad luck. No need for that kind of talk.
Song Qian’s hometown lay up north, a fair distance from South River City. With no direct high-speed rail or airport, she and Lin Qing first had to endure a grueling twenty-plus-hour train ride to Shuiwei Town.
Summer clothes were light and took up little space, so Song Qian packed everything into a single small suitcase. Lin Qing, on the other hand, dragged along one twice the size, bent double and gasping for air.
“Did you pack up your entire house or what?”
Lin Qing waved her off weakly and gestured for her to board the train first.
The train was packed to the gills with people bustling about. Once they found their seats, Lin Qing took a good while to catch his breath. “I brought everything I might need—plus some books and paper and such.”
Song Qian handed him a bottle of water and scanned the folks nearby.
Seated beside them were two young women who looked like they were off on a tourist jaunt, snapping excited photos on their phones with minimal luggage. Across from them sat a woman in a black trench coat, eyes closed in quiet repose. A beaded bracelet wound around her wrist, looping three times over her exposed skin.
Song Qian couldn’t help giving her a few extra glances. South River City in July was sweltering—hot enough to work up a sweat just sitting still—yet this woman was bundled head to toe in her long coat and pants, utterly dry-faced.
A few more passengers trickled on after that. The woman in the black trench coat had the window seat; next to her was a young couple who immediately started canoodling the moment they sat down, blocking Song Qian’s view.
There was an empty spot right next to Song Qian and Lin Qing. Across from them sat an old lady with snow-white hair, and the seat beside her was vacant too.
“Hurry it up! The train’s about to depart!” the attendant bellowed from the door. Someone was running late.
“Coming, coming!”
A young man shouted back, dashing through the door only to trip over his own feet. He went sprawling face-first onto the floor.
Song Qian winced. That had to hurt.
Evidently embarrassed by the pratfall, the young man scrambled up with impressive speed. His nose and forehead were scraped raw. He glanced around for his seat number—it was right next to the old lady.
He traveled light, with just a flat, slung crossbody bag hanging across his chest. He collapsed into his seat, panting hard. He’d clearly sprinted the whole way.
Something about his face struck Song Qian as familiar. After a few heaving breaths, he looked up and caught her staring without blinking. His face flushed anew. He patted himself down, checking his clothes for anything amiss, then touched his face for dirt.
“…Song Fu?”
Song Fu blinked at her in surprise. “You know me?” He didn’t recall ever meeting a girl this pretty.
Song Qian fished a bottle of water and a pack of wet wipes from her bag and passed them over. “I haven’t been back in years; it’s normal you wouldn’t recognize me. I’m Sensen.”
Song Fu’s eyes widened as realization dawned. He took the water with a grateful nod and gave an awkward smile. “You’ve gotten so pretty—I didn’t have a clue.”
Song Qian had spent a few years in the village as a kid. The other children hadn’t wanted much to do with her, but little Song Fu had always snuck her treats from home. A couple years older and more literate, he’d taught her to read the words in fairy tale books. After she was taken away, they lost touch.
Truth be told, she almost hadn’t dared believe it was him. The Song Fu in her memories had a face full of easy smiles, sunny and kind-hearted to a fault. This Song Fu wore a look of deep bitterness—even his smile carried a heavy weariness, as if he’d been buried alive in some lightless pit.
“Sensen, you heading back to see Grandma?” Song Fu tilted his head back for a few gulps of water before eyeing her luggage.
“Yeah, it’s been years. Figured I’d use the holiday to visit.”
Lin Qing suddenly piped up, eyeing Song Fu. “Friend, things haven’t been going your way lately, have they?”
Song Fu ignored him, turning to Song Qian instead. “Your boyfriend?”
“Bullshit!”
Lin Qing swallowed hard under Ji Wuxin’s icy glare. “Of course not! Just a regular friend, that’s all.”
Song Fu let out an “oh” and shot her a knowing look. Young folks always started out as “just friends,” after all.
Song Qian nudged with her knee at Ji Wuxin, who had popped up out of nowhere. No one else could see or hear her, but that sudden outburst was more than Song Qian could handle.
With Ji Wuxin’s interruption, Lin Qing dropped any further questions for Song Fu and slumped against the window, playing dead.
In their chatter, none of them noticed the old lady in the corner. Her cloudy eyes suddenly shifted, and the faintest hint of a smile tugged at her lips.
They had boarded in the afternoon, and as the train rocked steadily onward, the entire car slipped into a deep, collective slumber. Once the last sliver of daylight vanished from view, an overwhelming wave of drowsiness crashed over Song Qian.
Thud. Her phone slipped from her hand and tumbled under the seat. Her eyes were already drifting shut, but instinct made her bend down to retrieve it.
She groped around but couldn’t find it. Forcing her eyes open through the haze, she sensed someone watching her.
She looked up—and snapped fully awake in an instant. Her blood seemed to freeze solid in her veins. There, floating under the little tray table, was the old lady’s head. Two withered hands clutched it tight, as if the old lady had simply yanked it off and shoved it underneath.
At least it was facing away from her—the back of the head. Song Qian snatched up her phone and began easing herself upright, as slowly as she could.
All the while, she kept her eyes glued to that head. Her movements were feather-light. She was almost clear of the table when she dared to exhale—and then that snowy-white crown of hair whipped around. The old lady’s murky eyes locked onto hers, unblinking.
